


...the goodness within beneath the sin

by silveriris



Series: Arsonist's Lullabye [6]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Minor Character Death, Sampernia, spoilers for DA Inquisition but nothing serious
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-11
Updated: 2015-06-11
Packaged: 2018-04-03 22:36:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4117276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silveriris/pseuds/silveriris
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At times Samson wishes to return to simpler times of knowing what is right and what is wrong.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Dragon Age is not mine, although the writing certainly is.  
> A/N: title from To Have And To Hold by Depeche Mode.  
> I’m so, so happy we got Paying the Ferryman and Paper and Steel. If we’re getting additional content about them, maybe it means Bioware want to use them in the next Dragon Age game? I can dream.

There’s a knock on the door, his eyes leave the map he’s been studying, glancing at the woman who walks in. Her templar uniform is damaged but can still serve her well. She looks embarrassed or scared, or possibly both, but Samson knows she’s brave, all his soldiers are.

“We have a…” she takes a deep breath. “There’s a problem, sir.”

The fact he doesn’t hear people shouting means there’s no army attacking, besides he wouldn’t expect to see the Inquisition again so quickly after they were nearly destroyed at Haven ( _nearly_ – the word stings).

“Yes?” Samson asks, searching for a name but the image he has in his head is not entirely similar to the person standing here. He remembers her from a different time, and a place so far away it seems like a dream now. “Vera?”

She blinks, perhaps surprised the general knows her name. He can notice her hands are shaking; it will get worse, and she won’t be able to hold a sword and shield anymore. But there’s still time.

“We are losing one of our men, sir. It's Benett,” Vera replies, nearly choking on her words.

Samson observes as she bites on her lips, trying hard not to cry. This woman ( _girl_ ) is so young, and yet she has so much courage to follow him to the end of the world. He can’t afford doubting if what he is doing is right; there’s this complexity that makes his head hurt when he ties to think about it, and at times Samson wishes to return to simpler times of _knowing_ what is right and what is wrong. It’s too late now, however, he has to do what he _feels_ is right. He would like to have the conviction the Venatori have, because they know what they’re doing is right. He remembers asking Calpernia once to explain him what is their deal here exactly. He was curious not because he doubted they support the Elder One because they are “evil” (it’s always so easy to label certain people, certain nations, and it was especially easy with people from the Imperium; they have always been “evil”, why change things now). He asked because Calpernia seems so different than other Tevinters. She frees slaves and kills slavers; from what Samson knows about Tevinter mages, it should be the other way round. She is bold and proud, of course, like every ‘vint, like every _mage_ , and yet sometimes he catches her avoiding looking him in the eyes (not because she’s annoyed with him – she usually is, and he can’t do anything about it), and she keeps her head low as if… At times she behaves like she was still one of the slaves trained to be afraid to look their master in the eyes. He had seen Circle mages acting like this, sad and broken things who experienced the worst part of what the Templar Order had to offer, and he can’t stand the thought she could be like them. He heard the rumours, of course, but Calpernia never told him about her past, so he shakes his head in disbelief because the thought is truly ridiculous. This is a woman who fights for greatness. Would magisters ever allow a slave to lead them?

They wouldn’t, and every other slave would fail. Calpernia, however, would never ask for their permission, the masters would be the ones begging her, he’s sure.

So when the other day Samson asked, Calpernia wouldn’t stop talking; maybe she had a whole long speech prepared, or maybe she is truly passionate about her quest. When she talks about her cause, there’s something very close to admiration waking up inside his mind, because he wishes he had _half_ of the motivation Calpernia has.

He shakes his head to get rid of the woman haunting him so mercilessly ( _And whose fault is that?_ , he snaps, angry at himself), and turns to Maddox who has been listening silently all this time, just an observer as always.

“Let’s go.”

Vera’s “Thank you, sir” is so quiet he can barely hear it. Before they go, the Tranquil mage grabs a sheathed  sword, usually left forgotten but Samson is going to need it now. He knows what he has to do. They all know what has to be done, know it all too well because they have seen it before.

The red monstrosities are too powerful. They could lose and an arm, a leg, they could be cut in half and crawl in their own guts, it doesn’t matter. You can be sure they will be back, as long as they still have heads on their necks. Whatever they lose, lyrium will instantly replace, manifesting as red crystals and spikes, dripping blood and glowing as if to remind others _it_ is waiting for them, too, for their first and only mistake. It _knows_ one day you will make a mistake, and succumb to the howling inside your head. It is patient, and it _waits_.

You have to cut their heads off to make sure the people you once knew, good soldiers, won’t be coming back as mindless creatures dominated by the red frenzy. People exposed to red lyrium ( _his people_ ), can be divided into certain categories. First, there are the ones who couldn’t stand it and died. Nobody ever asks about them, they were left, forgotten. Yet he could recite all their names if asked – but nobody ever asks. Then, there are the ones who still can take lyrium and don’t change (not yet; but he can see their hands shaking, eyes hollow, always looking for a drop, just one drop will be enough, if he could just give them– ). There are some who used the power, let it transform them, but they still have control. Then there are the ones completely consumed, silent giants marching at the back of his troops. And at the very bottom of this list, there are the ones who lost their battle. Just like the man he sees now.

Samson can hardly recognise him, whole body deformed, his old templar armour broken, but there’s still a faint spark in his eyes telling others he knows what needs to be done.

Maddox is standing by his side, not afraid of the monstrosity kneeling in front of them (not afraid of anything; he’s as fearless as the sunburst symbol on his forehead), hands Samson a sword, his face blank. It needs to be done with a different sword, not with the cursed blade. The sword that belonged to Meredith is for killing; using it for this would be like mocking them instead of giving mercy. Samson grabs his old Kirkwall sword that’s getting rusty. It will suffice because they never struggle, perhaps accepting their fate. Somehow the sword gets heavier every time. In the monster’s eyes, there’s an echo of the person he once was; Samson knows he has to hurry or else he could think the man can still be saved, and he can’t afford having the luxury of hesitating when he needs to make a quick decision. What else can you do with a rabid dog? It should be easy.

_It never is_ , he thinks as the blade swings down, cutting flesh and bones in one swift motion, and he can taste bile on his tongue. The soldier’s– The monster’s body collapses on the grass sprayed with blood. Samson wipes the blade. Maddox looks at the now headless body; there’s almost a hint of compassion in his eyes.

As he goes back to his quarters, Samson can notice Calpernia talking to a group of Venatori mages. For a brief moment, he can’t get rid of a thought that maybe one day he will have to kill her, too. He also knows damn well he wouldn’t be able to lift his sword if she was the one kneeling in front of him, awaiting her execution. He’s always been a sentimental fool, it started way back when he was a templar helping mages from the Circle, and continues even now.

He should _hate_ all mages, not–

Samson shakes his head again. It’s so easy to label people, isn’t it?


	2. Chapter 2

 

Calpernia’s fury burns brighter than the flames. He sees her more angry every time the Elder One speaks to them. Obviously she’s clever enough to hide her feelings, not disrespecting Corypheus even once, but Samson can see all that rage in her eyes, especially when she looks at _him_ , and he’s certain she would turn him into a pile of ashes if she could. He’s sure she wants to; mages are dangerous, he should know better than to–

Marching to Haven and back took weeks despite the fact they didn’t have to set camp and rest, tirelessly moving forward. It’s been days since their return. Calpernia hasn’t spoken to him even once, staying in her quarters, always surrounded by other Venatori (perhaps they’re guarding their precious leader from a mad dog that he is), barely acknowledging his presence.

Samson mourned the soldiers who died, brought others back to their camp, dealt with the ones who lost the battle with the red. His men need him, he will not let them down. But it’s been weeks since he saw her again, and he’s so mad with himself because it’s so painfully visible he’s more addicted to that woman, a Tevinter _mage_ , than to lyrium he craves so much (it makes the red beast angry because there’s something else on his mind other than hunger; _good_ ).

He knows where to go, he’s been there way too many times before, always in secret and at night, so now it feels strange, going to see Calpernia so openly. He knows she’s going to be mad at him for this (but then, is she not _always_ mad at him?).

He knocks but doesn’t wait for her invitation. There’s a neatly organized pile of papers on the table, most likely notes from her spies, a black cup, now empty but Samson is sure she has been drinking tea, mint probably (he’s sure Calpernia would be able to make perfect tea in the middle of a blighted desert while others would die of dehydration). She’s speaking to a woman (a _girl_ ; yet another young girl fighting for their new god, and ready to die for him), both turn, surprised, as he walks in.

“I need to speak with Lady Calpernia in private.”

It feels quite strange, calling her that; _Lady Calpernia_ leaves a strange taste on his tongue the second words leave his mouth, reminding him of what used to be, all that hostility and tension he saw in her eyes before. A slight frown appears between Calpernia’s brows as she eyes him with irritation, the look he knows so well already. Still, he’s used to seeing her annoyed, he knows what to expect (to some extent, at least, the woman is still a mystery).

“Leave us, please,” Calpernia says to the girl, her voice so _polite_ Samson can’t help but ponder if she has ever been so nice to him. Or maybe he’s feeling jealous. After the fight with the blighted Inquisition, weeks of marching and fighting, then _more_ marching and _more_ fighting, perhaps he has the right to feel a little bit jealous.

Then, as soon as the girl leaves, Calpernia’s hazel eyes focus on him again, and before her expression changes, he half expects her to speak so politely to him as well. He knows he’s like a dog waiting for a praise but he can’t change it. It’s ridiculous, yet Samson has to admit that Calpernia being polite to him would be _nice_. Many things would be nice; sleeping in a comfortable bed, for instance. Or just sleeping, because he can’t exactly remember when was the last time he slept; he should be horrified but somehow he isn’t. Every time he closes his eyes, even for one moment, he can hear _it_ more clearly. That howling, scratching, growling – he can’t describe it, but it’s always there. He can hear it even now, he’s sure all his soldiers can hear it, too. Or maybe it’s just in his head, punishing him for what he did to the men and women that were once good people.

His eyes move to the bed by the window, and… _Oh_. He remembers now. Yes, sleeping for few hours was good. And, well, everything else that happened. _Hm_.

Then his gaze returns to Calpernia; seeing the expression on her face nearly makes him flinch. How can this small woman be so angry?

“What do you _want_ , Samson?”

Suddenly he’s reminded of one simple truth. Calpernia is not tender. She is not kind.

He takes a deep breath, his thoughts scattered, mind empty. Calpernia’s standing right in front of him and, incredibly, she hasn’t changed one bit even though it’s been weeks, _weeks_ , and he expected to see her change as everything else in this damned world.

Calpernia is strong and fearless, just like her magic, she burns with light that blinds. Her brows furrow when she looks at him with anger, and she tends to be cruel when she’s displeased. Angered, she swears in Tevene. Her nails leave bloody trails on his skin.

“What do I want?” he repeats, slowly. _Many things_ , he almost says. _But not as many as you think._

“I wanted to… talk,” Samson begins, uncertain if this can lead somewhere else than to a grave he’s currently digging for himself. Coming here doesn’t seem like a good idea now.

“Talk?” it’s her turn to repeat his words, apparently. “What do you want to talk about?”

The gap between her teeth and all those freckles on her face make her look younger than she really is. And she is a young thing, young but _tough_ even though she’s nothing but skin and bones under all those layers of her odd Tevene clothing. She’s skinny, though her arms are quite strong, she wields her staff with ease. Her skin is warm but her small feet are often cold. She’s patient when she braids her long hair, has no patience for him. He knows so much about her and yet so little. These are not things his spies would tell him about her (if he had spies, but that’s _her_ area of expertise). From time to time Samson wonders what Calpernia’s agents tell her about him; how much she really knows, about Kirkwall and templars. She never says anything, or maybe she just acts like she doesn’t care, who knows (he certainly doesn’t).

“Are we back to pretending that talking about noting is what we both want?”

“I don’t know. Are we? You came here, so you tell me.”

She smells like leather, fire and smoke. Calpernia’s magic smells like ashes, burning flesh and agonizing death – an easy reminder she has to be respected and feared or else she will remind everyone just what she can do with flames. Samson has seen her burn people alive, it’s not a nice view, but her fire never hurt the ones on her side, never hurt _him_. But every time he sees her casting spells, a voice whispers, _Mages cannot be trusted, you will be next_ ; red is dripping from its claws, and Samson just nods because he knows it all too well. Death in flames is agony; why he can’t stop going back to the one person who controls fire with ease, he doesn’t know (a lie easy enough to tell).

“I lost men, too many. Attacking Haven was a mistake, perhaps, it’s not for me to decide. You should have been there. Perhaps you would have succeeded where I failed.”

He says the words before he can think, it’s too late, and he can only look at Calpernia, see her eyes change, anger dissolving into something he can’t (doesn’t want to) understand.

Calpernia tries not to be tender or kind, yet sometimes she forgets to be the leader her people follow, fear and respect, and in those rare moments he can see a different side of the woman he knows. When he can see hesitation in her eyes, just like now.

“All I’m saying is, uh– “ he takes a deep breath. Before he can gather his thoughts, she interrupts him.

“What am I supposed to say now?!” her hiss is almost cat–like, and he can sense magic waking up inside her, ready to form flames in her fists. “You want me to congratulate you that you didn’t get yourself killed?”

“Tell me what you _think_ , Calpernia. Stop hiding behind your anger and tell me what you want to say.”

He knows he asks for too much. That it may cost him his life – _Never provoke a mage when they can hit you with a spell!_ , they told him. _When dealing with mages, always carry your sword!_ Samson doesn’t have his sword with him, he didn’t even take his knife. It’s a matter of… trust, perhaps, although the man who used to be a templar in Kirkwall would laugh at him for not taking any weapons when dealing with the most powerful mage in the area. Funny how things change.

Part of him still expects to see Calpernia summoning flames. She is, incredibly, significantly calmer in a blink of an eye.

“I’m beginning to…” a slight frown appears between her brows as she’s struggling for the right words. “I’m starting to have… doubts.”

“Concerning?” Samson asks despite knowing what she has in mind; but he has to hear her say it to know he’s not the only one thinking that.

“My role here,” Calpernia says vaguely enough, cautious because there might be someone listening (there isn’t but she’s always careful).

He knows about her ambitions and motivations; he may only envy Calpernia that she has so much strength and conviction, while he’s merely trying to survive. And yet he was the one chosen by Corypheus for the attack that was supposed to end the Inquisition. Samson would be lying if he said he wasn’t surprised; though they are supposed to be equals, Calpernia is obviously more fiercely devoted despite having her personal plans as well.

The Elder One is playing a game; all Thedas is his chessboard, while they are nothing but pawns in his hands, acting as he commands. But following Corypheus  guarantees freedom for the Red Templars, so Samson obeys. He can see why Calpernia is… _worried_ , though she will never openly admit it. She has her own game to plan, and she can’t afford losing.

Before Samson can say anything, however, she swiftly changes the topic. “Did you see the Inquisitor? I’ve heard so many rumours about them, yet I don’t know anything for sure.”

She sounds calm enough so others would believe her, but Samson can notice her hands shaking slightly as she grabs a bunch of letters to stack them on the desk. It’s clear she has to do something with her hands or else she would give in to temptation and start casting spells, because only her magic can offer her peace no matter what.

“I didn’t, it was… it was dark,” he explains weakly, trying to keep this pointless conversation going despite wanting to talk about something else entirely. But if she insists on avoiding that topic, he will respect her wish, as always.

“Dark?” Calpernia looks at him, one eyebrow raised, and Samson is not sure whether she’s laughing at him or just confused. “You didn’t get to see our greatest enemy because it was _dark_.”

“The Inquisitor didn’t exactly come to the Red Templars to give us a warm welcome,” he shrugs. “We fought the Inquisition before the landslide nearly killed us all. We have a god with a blighted _dragon_ on our side, and yet it was snow that almost crushed us. But I’m sure you already know all this. You’re always perfectly informed, are you not, Lady Calpernia?”

He didn’t come here to fight, yet he can’t stop himself. And there it is, the signature frown on her face again.

“I am, of course. But it would be rude, not to mention stupid, to show how much I know, don’t you think, general?”

There’s a challenge in her voice and eyes, and a spark of irritation hiding how worried she is. He can read her quite well now.

“I heard the Inquisition has the best spymaster in all Thedas.”

“Perhaps that’s why they won,” she narrows her eyes at him. “Information is power.”

It stings but he laughs anyway. “Well, maybe you’re not wrong, Lady Calpernia.”

“You can’t just admit I’m right, can you, general?”

Samson lets out a sigh. They’re both idiots. He’s a bigger one, it’s clear when in the silence that follows, he raises his hand to touch her cheek.

_I’ve done many foolish things today_ , he thinks, again expecting to see his body burn for doing something he shouldn’t. His hand seems freakishly large as he cups her face.

Magic doesn’t attack, fire never comes. Calpernia inhales sharply, then looks away, as her gloved hand covers his, expression soft but with the kind of melancholy she’s afraid to show to others.

“You’re always right.”

She nods, ever so slightly. There’s a hint of a smile on her lips.


End file.
